Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (4 page)

The room was full. The customers were mainly workingmen and -women. They stood at the bar, some with coats over their servant garb, along with shopkeepers who’d popped in to hear the latest gossip and clerks with their bowlers lying atop the counter. A fire burned in the hearth next to the bar, there were people at the few tables scattered about the room, and the benches along the walls were full as well. A buzz of excitement, over and above normal pub chatter, filled the room.

Smythe grinned at Wiggins. “We’re in luck, they’ve heard of the murder.”

Just then, two men wearing greengrocer’s smocks moved away from the counter and toward the door. Smythe and Wiggins quickly took their place.

“What’ll you have?” the barman asked.

“Two pints, please,” Smythe replied. He glanced to his left and caught the gaze of a lone, gaunt-looking man lifting a glass of gin to his lips. He tried a friendly smile but the fellow just knocked back his drink and turned his head. No gossip to be had there.

Wiggins eased closer to the two women standing next to him and cocked his head toward their conversation.

“I’m not surprised someone finally did her in,” the older of the ladies said. She was a portly woman wearing a long gray coat and a black knitted cap. “Considering the way she treated poor Elsa, God rest her soul, she’s not one that anyone will be shedding any tears over.”

The barman slid a pint under Wiggins’ nose and he absently nodded his thanks. He made eye contact with Smythe and gave a small shake of his head toward the ladies.

“She wasn’t a nice person,” the younger lady, a tall redhead, replied. “But she didn’t deserve to be hacked up in her own garden.”

“She weren’t hacked up, she were shot,” a workman in a flat cap said from the other side of the women.

“Was someone killed?” Wiggins asked innocently.

The two women and the man looked at him. He smiled shyly. “Sorry, I couldn’t ’elp overhearin’.”

“The woman that owns that big house across the way got herself shot,” the man said. “Her name’s Olive Kettering and she’s a spinster lady.”

“Did they catch who did it?” Smythe leaned forward over the bar.

“I doubt it; she were only killed this mornin’,” the redhead said. “So they’re not likely to know much, now, are they?”

“Cor blimey, that’s terrible. The poor lady,” Wiggins added.

“Poor lady my foot,” the older one put in. “I’m not one for speakin’ ill of the dead, but Olive Kettering was a mean-spirited old cow and I don’t much care who hears me say it. She was so miserable to her servants she wouldn’t even let them take a few hours off to go to the doctor and now look what’s happened. Elsa Grant is dead.”

“Someone else is dead?” Wiggins exclaimed.

“Yes, but she wasn’t murdered.” The man reached for his glass. “Elsa Grant was the cook at the Kettering house. She died and her funeral is today.”

“We don’t know that she wasn’t done in.” The redhead glared at the workman.

“She died of natural causes,” he protested. “She had something wrong with her stomach. God knows she’d been complainin’ about it for months.”

“He’s right,” the older woman added. “She’d been feelin’ poorly for months. Dr. Hilton thinks she probably had the cancer, leastways that’s what he told my Ned when he was there putting in those fancy new lamps in the surgery.”

“Yes, but she didn’t get to see Dr. Hilton until it was too late, did she?” the redhead argued. “So he don’t know what it was that killed her. It might have been something simple that he could have cured if she’d been allowed to go see him. But Olive Kettering wouldn’t give her time off, would she?”

“Elsa had an afternoon out, just like everyone else in the household,” the man pointed out. “She’s the one who didn’t want to waste her time going to a doctor until it was too late.”

“But the Kettering woman wouldn’t let her go then, would she?” the redhead snapped. “She knew how sick Elsa was and she wouldn’t let her off to see a doctor and didn’t call one to the house until it was too late. Seems to me Olive Kettering got exactly what she deserved.”

 

The flat over the carriage house was large, airy, and spacious. Witherspoon had noticed the small but modern kitchen they’d passed as Mrs. Fox had led them down the short corridor to the drawing room. It was quite an impressive room, with tall windows draped with blue and cream silk curtains and a polished wooden floor laid out in an intricate diamond pattern. The walls were painted a pale rose cream and topped with carved white crown moldings. A cut-glass chandelier hung from the ceiling and all the French Regency furniture filling the room was upholstered in a dark sapphire and rose striped fabric.

Bernadine Fox stared at her two visitors. They were sitting in front of the fireplace; she was on the center of the sofa and Witherspoon was on her right. Barnes had taken a straight-backed chair by the hearth. She was a small, slender, rather attractive middle-aged woman with blue eyes and streaks of gray in her dark brown hair. She wore a gray skirt and a high-necked white blouse with an onyx and gold pin at her neck. “I wouldn’t have even seen her if I hadn’t glanced out the window.” She bit her lip and looked away.

Witherspoon nodded sympathetically. “It must have been a terrible shock for you.”

She sniffed, pulled a white handkerchief out of her sleeve, and dabbed at her eyes. “It certainly was. One doesn’t expect to see one’s neighbor lying in the garden.”

Barnes looked up from his little brown notebook. “What time was this, Mrs. Fox?”

“It was just past ten o’clock,” she replied.

“You looked at the clock?”

“Yes”—she pointed at the grandfather clock standing by the door—“and I noted the time. I was wondering if Olive—Miss Kettering—was going to come over for a cup of coffee.” She sighed.

“Was it Miss Kettering’s habit to come over each morning?” the inspector asked.

“It wasn’t a habit, but she did occasionally come by and we’d have our morning coffee together. I was all alone here, as I’d let my maid go to a funeral, and I knew she was alone as well.”

“They all went to Elsa Grant’s funeral, is that correct?” Barnes asked.

She nodded. “Yes, that’s right. She was Miss Kettering’s cook. Her death was sad, but certainly not unexpected. She’d been ill on and off for some time.”

“This flat is beautiful.” Witherspoon glanced around the room as he spoke. “Did Miss Kettering let it furnished?”

“Certainly not,” she replied. “The furnishings and the fixtures are all mine. It was nothing but bare walls when I rented the place.”

Witherspoon nodded. “Do you live here alone?”

“Yes. I moved in when my husband passed away.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I have a maid, but she doesn’t live in, and before you ask, I pay the maid’s wages, not Miss Kettering.”

“How long have you lived here?” Barnes asked.

“Five years, but what does that have to do with Olive’s death?”

The constable smiled slightly. “It’s just routine, ma’am,” he assured her.

“Can you tell us everything that happened this morning?” Witherspoon asked softly.

“There isn’t much to tell.” She shrugged. “I went to the window to see if the rain had let up—I knew Olive wouldn’t venture out if it was still storming. When I looked out, I saw her lying on the ground. I grabbed my cloak and rushed out. At that point, I didn’t know she’d been shot.” Her voice trailed off and she closed her eyes.

“Please go on,” the inspector prompted. “I know this is difficult, but the more we know, the faster we can catch the person who did this to her.”

She nodded. “Yes, of course. As I said, I rushed out and when I reached her, I saw straightaway that she’d been shot. For a moment, I simply stood there, blinking my eyes, sure that I was seeing things. Then I realized I had to fetch the police.”

“Had the rain completely stopped by then?” Barnes asked.

“I think so.” She frowned slightly. “Oh, to be honest, I don’t remember. I don’t remember much of anything except running toward Faroe Road. I had my cloak over my head so I don’t . . . actually, I think the rain had stopped. Yes, yes, it had. I remember now. When I got there, I saw the constable up the road so I screamed and waved my arms. He came straightaway and when I told him what I’d seen, that someone had been shot, he blew his whistle and summoned more help. Then we came back here.”

Witherspoon eased back against the cushions. “What time are the servants due back from the funeral?”

“I’m not sure. Cook’s funeral was in Kent and I gave my maid the day off. Her family lives in that region so I said she needn’t come back until tomorrow. But I should think Olive’s staff would be back soon. The train service is quite good, and even if they stayed for the reception, I’m sure Olive expected them back by the early afternoon. She wasn’t one to take care of herself for long periods of time. Truth to tell, I was surprised that Olive—Miss Kettering—gave all of them the morning off at the same time.”

“Surely she didn’t begrudge them paying their respects to their colleague,” Witherspoon exclaimed. “She doesn’t sound as if she treated her staff very well at all.”

“By her standards she treated them very well.” Mrs. Fox smiled. “By theirs, I’m sure they felt very hard done by. I’m sure she complained bitterly about being left on her own, but in the end, she did let them go.”

“Then exactly why were you surprised, ma’am?” Barnes gazed at her curiously.

“She didn’t like being alone in the house,” Mrs. Fox replied. “For some reason, it made her nervous. Recently, there had also been some friction between Miss Kettering and her servants.”

Witherspoon sat up straighter. “What kind of friction?”

Mrs. Fox looked down at her hands and then lifted her eyes to meet the inspector’s. “They blamed her for Elsa Grant’s death. I overheard the downstairs maid telling the gardener that all of them blamed her and that most of them were going to start looking for new positions.”

The inspector’s heart sank. Ye gods, surely there wasn’t going to be another murder. “Exactly how did the cook die?”

“From natural causes, I assure you.” Mrs. Fox waved her hand dismissively. “Mrs. Grant died from a stomach ailment. She’d had it for months.”

“Then why did the servants think Miss Kettering was to blame for the woman’s death?” Barnes asked reasonably.

Mrs. Fox shrugged. “None of them like Miss Kettering, she has very exacting standards.”

“Lots of servants don’t like their masters, but they rarely accuse them of murder,” the constable pointed out.

“As I said, Miss Kettering has very exacting standards; she works her servants quite hard,” she replied. “The staff seemed to think that the cook took a turn for the worse a few days ago. Miss Kettering insisted the cook finish preparing dinner instead of going to the doctor. They seem to believe that if Mrs. Grant had seen the physician, she’d still be alive today.”

“Even for a woman with exacting standards, not allowing a sick woman to see her doctor is fairly harsh,” Witherspoon muttered.

“But she’d no idea that cook was as ill as she turned out to be. The woman was always complaining about her health,” Mrs. Fox said defensively. “How was she to know that this time, Mrs. Grant was genuinely ill? Olive had an important dinner party planned for that night and, frankly, if I’d been in her place, I’d have done the very same thing. Her actions were totally blameless and she certainly wasn’t responsible for anyone dying.”

“An important dinner party,” Witherspoon echoed. He’d found that if he repeated words back to people, they frequently said more.

“She was hosting a dinner for Reverend Richards and she’d invited a number of influential people. Of course she needed a superb meal that evening.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes again.

“Did Miss Kettering have any enemies?” Barnes asked. “Had she had any trouble with anyone lately?”

Mrs. Fox thought for a moment before answering. “I wouldn’t say that she had enemies, but there were a good number of people who weren’t fond of her.”

“Other than her servants,” Witherspoon clarified.

“Yes. To begin with, there’s her cousin, Dorian Kettering. There’s been no love lost between the two of them lately. Pity, really. They used to be quite close.”

“What happened between them?” The inspector glanced out the window and saw that the rain had started again.

“Religion, Inspector. Dorian’s a true seeker after knowledge and, though he’s nowhere near as wealthy as Olive was, he has enough money that he can spend his time in study and travel. He’s just come back from a study tour that took him to the Holy Land and the United States. Apparently, the experience convinced him that God is love. Olive also had a spiritual awakening of sorts, but hers convinced her of the complete opposite.” She shook her head. “Needless to say, after Dorian returned home, the two of them had some loud and rather vicious arguments.”

“Does Miss Kettering have any other relatives in London?” Witherspoon asked.

“She has a niece here as well, but the two of them haven’t spoken in several years.” She smiled sadly. “Olive had a difficult time with relatives. She simply couldn’t stop herself from constantly interfering in their lives.”